


argument and affection

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Drunken Shenanigans, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Oblivious Marius Pontmercy, Pining, Pining Courfeyrac, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: It all starts with the arrival of Marius Pontmercy. Courfeyrac has several regrets about his life, and quite a few failings, but meeting Marius was not one of them.
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Marius Pontmercy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	argument and affection

It all starts with the arrival of Marius Pontmercy. Courfeyrac has several regrets about his life, and quite a few failings, but meeting Marius was not one of them.

It had been a rash decision, to invite Marius into his rooms and to live with him. But then again, Courfeyrac had always been a sucker for a pretty face, and Marius, with his charmingly awkward airs, had been in distress. That is Courfeyrac’s only excuse.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Courfeyrac tells the dejected Marius.

Marius, a naturally contrary person if Courfeyrac had ever seen one, proceeds to become even more uncomfortable. He sits on the furniture like a giant spider. “Thank you for offering your rooms,” he mumbles in the general direction of Courfeyrac’s left rib.

“Stay as long as you want,” Courfeyrac says, spreading his arms and gesturing to the entirety of his cramped quarters. “I am completely at your disposal.”

Marius lifts his head and cracks a small, hesitant smile at him, and just like that, Courfeyrac is smitten.

He buys a satisfactory dinner for the two of them and a bottle of acceptable wine. He is determined not to lose his head over this, and that starts with not spending indiscriminately. Marius makes tentative conversation over the stuffed carp, and gets ridiculously drunk on a few glasses. Since Courfeyrac hadn’t prepared his bed yet, they both tumble into the only available one, giggling like idiots. Marius is asleep before Courfeyrac can wrap him in blankets.

-

Marius drools in his sleep and has the tendency to cuddle. Somehow, Courfeyrac’s mind declines to find this irritating. Instead of dealing with his feelings in a proactive manner, he buries his head in a pillow and screams as soon as Marius leaves the rooms to run an errand.

Charming.

When Marius walks in on Courfeyrac curling his hair and applying pomade, he is carrying a bedraggled-looking kitten and looking morose. Courfeyrac hisses at him to shut the door before anyone can see the state of his hair.

“I don’t understand,” Marius says, but he shuts the door anyway.

“Bless you, of course you don’t understand.” Courfeyrac shakes his head full of curling papers. “Wherever did you acquire that cat?”

“It looked so desolate,” Marius says, avoiding the question and brushing wet fur out of the cat’s eyes. “Could we not take care of it for a few days?” He looks at Courfeyrac hopefully.

“Very well, very well,” he says, trying to sound irritated and managing exasperated fondness. “But once it is recovered, we are giving it to Joly.”

Marius makes a gleeful sound as Courfeyrac turns to the mirror to check on the progress of his curls. Marius’ face is a study in enthusiasm, with gleaming eyes and a smile that nearly splits his face. Courfeyrac feels his cheeks heat. It really does not help that Marius has started to amuse the kitten by dragging a corner of his handkerchief across the floor.

-

The damned cat hoards all of Marius’ attention.

After the thing was given a bath (and had scratched Courfeyrac in the process), it was a fuzzy little ball of eyes and fur, and Marius was immediately enamored of it.

“Look, Courfeyrac, it likes me!” Marius says, cuddling the disgruntled-looking kitten. Its legs poke out in odd angles, and it’s rubbing its head against Marius’ chin.

“And it scratched me.” Courfeyrac waves his bandaged hand, hoping to elicit Marius’ sympathy. Marius, however, is staring fascinatedly at the way the cat’s tail twitches, and does not notice. Courfeyrac tries a different tactic.

“It might be gaining your trust now, but soon it will turn traitor. You are bound for the same fate as I am. Just you wait, Pontmercy.” Courfeyrac flings himself over the settee.

“No need to be so dramatic,” Marius says with a pout. “I’m sure Napurrleon will eventually warm up to you.”

Courfeyrac pokes his head up, beneath the cushions. “I’m sorry, what now?”

Marius looks at him with wide, wide eyes. “Napurrleon.”

Courfeyrac cannot help himself. He bursts out laughing.

-

“Marius, you received a letter,” Courfeyrac calls as he waves the envelope and box in question.

Marius emerges from the screened-off corner of the room, and Courfeyrac sputters a little. He has accidentally worn one of Courfeyrac’s waistcoats, which is visibly not made to fit him, but remains a charming image, nonetheless.

Courfeyrac clears his throat and hands the letter and box over. Marius looks the contents over for a few seconds before letting out an irritated little sound, like a whistling kettle.

“My grandfather has sent me money,” he says.

“That is a good thing, then,” Courfeyrac says, opening the box and peering at the contents. “Six hundred francs. A goodly enough sum, seeing as you parted on bad terms. Why do you sound so grieved?”

“It is an insult. I do not accept. I have the means to live by myself,” Marius cries, flinging the envelope to the floor. Courfeyrac half-expects him to stomp on it, or grind it beneath his heel.

“Did you not tell me that you only had at most ten francs?” He tries to sound reasonable. He had been paying for Marius’ room and board, in secret, when it became clear that he had nothing to his name.

“Five, as of today.”

Courfeyrac fights against the emerging expression on his face. His lip quivers. “Ah. Well, I have mentioned to you the possible work with the publisher, but since you do not know English or German—”

“—I will learn them,” Marius says, sticking his chin in the air in a determined manner. “It cannot be so difficult.”

Courfeyrac ignores the inherent absurdity. “And the money?”

“I will send it back.”

And just like that, Courfeyrac hatches a plan. “And do you know where to post it?”

Marius falters, a little. “No, of course not.”

“Well, then, I shall mail it for you. No need to trouble yourself; your friend Courfeyrac is at your service. Simply give me the letter and I shall do the rest.”

Marius writes the letter, looking uncertain, and Courfeyrac gives him several hearty pats on the back. Ever since the cat had been given away, they had been getting along very well, and Marius suspected nothing about Courfeyrac’s feelings. It was an ideal situation and Courfeyrac planned to keep it that way.

He ‘accidentally’ forgets to drop off the letter and the box in the mail, and he takes to sneaking various bits of the money into Marius’ pockets, just so he is never caught without.

-

Marius moves out, and Courfeyrac is almost certain his despondence shows in his face. He has done his best to prevent himself from moping, but he fears that everyone else can see right through it. Prouvaire has been writing more poems about doomed romance, lately, and clicking his tongue whenever Courfeyrac sighs. Grantaire has taken him aside and gotten him drunk at a ball, slapping him on the back and telling him to get over it. (Courfeyrac had rolled his eyes and called him a hypocrite.)

Enjolras has even pulled him aside during a meeting and asked him if Marius’ absence was troubling him. He had gone too far, even by his own standards.

That evening, he attends a party hosted by Prouvaire and his eccentric friends, and he has too much absinthe and hashish, and accidentally kisses someone who looks like Marius, if he wore his hair with flowers in it and had less freckles across his nose. He doesn’t even know the man’s name.

“You seem desperate,” says the man, smirking after Courfeyrac pulls away. He was not a particularly good kisser. He has no right to smirk. “I could show you a good time.”

“It’s called a mistake,” Courfeyrac says, wishing it was acceptable to punch the man in the face. “I need some fresh air.” He stands up, feeling his head spin.

God, he misses Marius.

He misses Marius so much that he decides to visit him. In the middle of the night, barely able to stumble over his own feet.

It is a great plan.

He is very drunk, but he still remembers Marius’ address, in an out-of-the-way tenement with terrible drafts and even more terrifying solitude. He throws himself bodily at Marius’ door, and it immediately swings open. He sprawls on the floor.

Marius bolts upright in his bed with a cry. He’s swaddled in a single threadbare blanket, and his nightshirt permits a delightful view of his freckled shoulders.

“My good man,” Courfeyrac announces, from the floor. “I have come to sleep with you.”

Marius squeaks, which is par for the course. He doesn’t look displeased, just confused. He shivers as a draft blows through the house, and Courfeyrac frowns. Marius is wearing far too little for a man in the dead of winter.

First, Marius needs clothes. Courfeyrac has on a thick coat and several of Prouvaire’s handmade scarves are stuffed into his pockets, where he has sworn they will never see the light of day. He sits on the bed and bundles Marius into the things, ignoring his weak, halfhearted protests.

Swathed in the clothes that are much too big for him, some color comes back into Marius’ cheeks. “What—what are you doing here?” he demands, looking far too dignified.

“I told you,” Courfeyrac says. “Really, Marius, haven’t you been listening?”

“It’s late,” Marius says, but he puts a hand on Courfeyrac’s to stop him from getting up. He sounds reasonable. Courfeyrac cannot deal with a reasonable Marius Pontmercy at this hour.

Courfeyrac nods and pulls Marius into an embrace, the better to make sure he is warm. He is certainly not pale anymore, but he has no hat. Why does Marius have no hat? He should have a hat. He looks around the room for one, but it is pitch-dark except for the moon, and he cannot find a hat.

“Are you all right?” Marius says, and it comes out muffled, because his face is mashed against Courfeyrac’s collar, but he sounds concerned. He needs to be reassured. Courfeyrac will not hold with a concerned Marius. Especially not with a Marius that is concerned for _him_.

“Of course I’m not all right,” Courfeyrac says, and that’s not what he meant to say _at all_. “You left me.” And he sounds like he is about to cry, and there are tears falling down his face and making blots on Marius’ thin mattress and pitiful blanket, and _when did that happen_? “I _miss_ you.”

Marius makes a noise, and Courfeyrac cannot tell what sort of noise it is, not right now, because he is shaking and sniffling and it’s cold, without his coat, and he feels horrid. He’s worrying Marius, and Marius should not be worried, especially not about Courfeyrac—

Marius whimpers, and he puts his arms around Courfeyrac. “I missed you too,” he says, in an awful, choked little voice, and he’s crying too, now, and Courfeyrac is not going to let Marius Pontmercy cry, not if he can help it.

“Then you will move back in with me,” Courfeyrac says, with as much authority as he can muster. “You will move back in with me, Marius Pontmercy, and that—that will be the solution to all our problems.”

Marius nods, and Courfeyrac pats him on the head. Everything will be okay now. He was sure of it.

They wake up together for the first time in months, and Courfeyrac is happy.

-

Marius becomes a lawyer, and Courfeyrac insists that they go out to celebrate. Hidden under their bed in a fine box is a bottle of wine and a couple of romance novels Marius had been pining over, and Courfeyrac is quite confident that the gift will be well-received.

Marius had a certain fondness for chicken, above all other food. Grantaire had told Courfeyrac that the best spatchcocked chickens were to be found at Mother Sauget’s. Therefore, they are to dine there tonight, and then to the theatre afterwards, where he might hold Marius’ hand in the dark, and finally, to home and hearth. It is one of Courfeyrac’s best plans. He burns to see it in action.

Which is why, when Marius falls ill that very afternoon, Courfeyrac practically drags Combeferre through mud and mad landladies to prod him gingerly back into health. Never mind that Combeferre has all sorts of blood on his sleeves and wants to get home to dissect a spleen. Marius had to be restored to full health as soon as possible.

“It’s nothing serious,” Combeferre says, after a perfunctory glance at Marius’ tongue.

“How could you know that?” Courfeyrac says, bristling. “You must cure him! Give him tinctures, prescribe medicines, put leeches on his stomach!”

Marius whimpers and sniffs. He makes quite a pathetic picture, and his nose looks redder than ever. He draws away from the two of them.

“He has a cold. No need to take drastic measures,” Combeferre snaps. “He needs rest. Peace and quiet. Water.”

Courfeyrac forces a smile. “Well, if I give him absolute peace and quiet for the next few hours and all the water he could ever want, will he be better in time for supper?”

“Courfeyrac.”

“I have plans!”

“You are not to disturb him. You are to keep him well-fed and make sure he drinks water, and no wine. You are to keep out of his room—”

“—but this is _our_ room,” croaks Marius, from the bed. Combeferre glances at Courfeyrac at that, and Courfeyrac feels his face heat.

“Well, keep out of the way, at any rate, and no disturbing him. Your mere presence is an agitation. No stimulating conversation, Courfeyrac.”

“Gossip isn’t stimulating.”

“Courfeyrac.”

“No talking to Marius, got it.” Courfeyrac pouts, which makes Marius smile, even as he sneezes. Perhaps the evening isn’t such a waste after all.

Combeferre nods at that, satisfied. He leaves, muttering about spleens and humors, and Courfeyrac waits for the door to close before he sits next to Marius.

“Combeferre said—” Marius protests, weakly.

“—hush, you. I know what Combeferre said, but I also know that without your company, I would keel over of boredom.” Courfeyrac considers the risk to himself before taking one of Marius’ hands and kissing the knuckles. “And after all, what sort of a friend would I be if I left you all alone here without the slightest effort to care for you?”

Marius looks embarrassed and pleased, which is a good look on him, despite the fact that he snorts so loudly that the people in the other room stop talking. “I didn’t ruin your plans?”

Courfeyrac thinks of the table he reserved for them, sitting empty, the chickens that he ordered going uneaten, the tickets to the theater in his pocket that would surely be useless tomorrow, and his plans about the hand-holding. He smiles, for Marius’ sake.

“No, not at all.”

-

Marius had been fidgeting all week long, and Courfeyrac had been pretending not to notice for the same amount of time. He hadn’t tried to coax it out of him, fearing that Marius would startle and clam up, and he would never get the secret out of him again.

That evening, they were having dinner at the cramped little table in the corner, and Marius was shooting Courfeyrac furtive little glances over the chicken. Courfeyrac pours him a glass of wine, and he swallows it down quickly and sloppily

“I need to tell you something,” Marius says, his grip on his glass white-knuckled.

“I figured as much,” Courfeyrac says, taking his glass away and running his fingers over the back of Marius’ hand. “You have my complete and undivided attention.”

“Your hand—” Marius says in a strangled voice.

“—While my hand strays, my attention shall not,” Courfeyrac declares.

“Oh. Um. Very well.” Marius clears his throat.

Courfeyrac leans over the table, holding his breath.

“I think I like you.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “I would be offended if you didn’t like me, seeing as we have been sharing an apartment and a bed for the past few months, and you have been calling me your friend all the while.”

Marius shakes his head, looking distressed. “No, you don’t understand. I mean, in a more, ah, romantic sense.” He turns red.

“I knew that already,” Courfeyrac says, smiling brilliantly to hide the blush spreading over his cheeks.

“H-how?”

“Well, for one thing, we have been in a very happy relationship ever since the night you became a lawyer. We have gone out on dates. You have held my hand and embraced me in public, and kissed me in private. How could you not know that you liked me?”

“But I only found out last week!” Marius protests.

“Then you are the last to know,” Courfeyrac says, between laughs. “Even Enjolras tendered his congratulations two weeks ago, and provided us an excellent bottle of wine.”

“Which we are drinking now.”

“Which we are drinking now,” Courfeyrac agrees, and pours them both another glass. “Mind you, I’m just happy you realized it already.”

Marius kisses him after the meal, and Courfeyrac finds that he really cannot complain.

-

Marius had missed the opera today, due to his translation duties which now occupied quite a lot of his hours. Courfeyrac was still receiving the money from his grandfather, and the excess left after Marius was fed and clothed and lodged, and with a few francs laid by in case of emergencies, had gone to the furtherance of the Cause. He had told Marius of this deception, and convinced him after much argument and affection, that receiving it and wasting it on Republican ideals was just as good as sending it away. Marius still kept at the translation work, though, which suited him well.

Today, Courfeyrac also has a box of costumes abstracted from one of the lesser dressing-rooms, and an earful of Prouvaire’s commentary regarding the production, and he is going to stage a pale imitation of it in their rooms. With the costumes. By himself.

It would make Marius smile, at least.

Marius is still bent over his desk, muttering to himself over and over as he pages through a dictionary. That is not a good sign.

“Greetings!” Courfeyrac says, and he drops the box, because it is heavy, and because it makes a loud noise against the floor. Marius jumps in his seat, and makes a valiant effort to not stare.

“What on earth—?” he says.

“Since my darling Pontmercy cannot attend the opera, I must bring the opera to him!” Courfeyrac jams an elaborate hat over his own and finds a feathery cape. “Pardon my soprano, of course.”

Marius chokes, trying to keep back his laughter. His eyes are very wide. His bottom lip is quivering.

Courfeyrac clears his throat, and starts to sing the opening lines of the opera as best as he can remember. His voice warbles and breaks, because there is no way he can actually reach the notes required, but he manages a parody, and Marius—

—Marius is looking in the box of costumes, and putting on a frilly apron and a wig, smiling ruefully at Courfeyrac. He finds a soldier’s jacket, and a pointed pirate hat. “Is this—was it like this?” Marius says, adjusting the buttons.

“Christ above, Marius, you still have no fashion sense even now.”

Marius frowns, and pulls off the hat. The wig tumbles to the ground. “Better?” he inquires.

“Still ridiculous, but better,” Courfeyrac concedes. “Just a little?”

“Will anything ever be good enough for you?” Marius says, with a snort of laughter.

“You’re good enough for me,” Courfeyrac says, because he doesn’t hide his feelings well.

Neither can Marius, apparently, because the next thing that Courfeyrac knows, he’s clinging to Courfeyrac like a particularly stubborn octopus, and mumbling under his breath. Courfeyrac peels him off and kisses him on top of his nose.

“Speak up, love,” Courfeyrac says, and he really doesn’t mean to do it, but Marius’ answering smile is so wide, and his face so red, and he can’t find it in his heart to regret it.

They have a good night, despite Marius having to get out of bed in the early morning to finish his translation work and Courfeyrac accidentally setting fire to one of the more garish costumes. They are both, completely and without question, happy.


End file.
